From the Eyes of the Boy With the Bread
by horcruxed
Summary: Peeta Mellark is reaped along with the love of his life. This is a story of the point of view of Peeta in the 74th Hunger Games.
1. Chapter 1

_From the Eyes of the Boy With the Bread_

Author's Note: Hello, everyone kind enough to read my first story. This is my attempt at Peeta's point of view of the first book, and I'm beginning with the reaping. This is probably not an original idea in the slightest, but I wanted to give it a try. Peeta is one of my favorite characters in the series, so I'd really like to input his point of view, since we don't get to know many of his thoughts and feelings during the books. I am going to tweak the dialogue a bit from the book, so as to make this more of my own, even though everything belongs to Suzanne Collins.

Reviews would be great, but are not necessary. So, let's get started. Enjoy!

**The Unexpected Reaping**

Lying in bed, I stare up at the ceiling, pondering how the events of the day will play out. My mother told me I could have the day off today because of the specialty of the day, but I declined the abnormally kind gesture of hers; we can never afford to take a break from work, not in these tough times. All efforts are required for our business, the bakery, to succeed, and even one day of relaxation can be detrimental.

The wooden planks that cross my ceiling look worn and degraded – why I am spending my time examining the structure of our poverty-stricken home? Well, I will admit, we are better off than many other families of the district, such as those of the Seam. The Seam is one of the poorer areas of District 12. Hundreds of families are starving there, even with the aid of the tesserae; it's very hard to watch. I know I'm lucky to be the son of bakers, but sometimes, I can't live with myself when I know my fellow district members are suffering.

And frankly, I've seen this type of suffering one too many times.

"Peeta!" I hear my mother call from the lower level of our home, the bakery floor. "Will you be ready to leave soon?"

"Err-" Considering that I'm still in bed, I'm afraid that would be a negative. "I'll be down in a few minutes!" I yell downstairs anyway.

Stretching, I climb out of bed, and walk toward the mirror. My thick, blond hair is messy, so I comb it out a bit. I then pull on some of my nicer clothes: a sky blue colored shirt, a pair of straight brown pants, and some simple brown leather shoes, and I decide I look presentable for the proceedings of the day.

I leave my room behind, and traipse down the rickety staircase of our home to the first floor, trying to relax and prepare myself for the day. My mind wants to believe today will be fine, but my heart aches with a sense of newly-discovered fear…

"Ready, son?" my father looks over to me, an attempted aurora of hope in his voice that does not reach his eyes. I know he's nervous; the chances of me getting picked rise every year.

"I suppose," I say. Honestly, I just want to get this reaping over with. I intentionally slept late today, knowing I wouldn't have school because of the reaping, but my chores have piled up quickly, and some of the cakes I have to decorate will take quite awhile.

"Hurry, hurry, you two," my mom snaps. "The reaping begins in ten minutes!"

We scramble out the door of the bakery, and adopt a quick walking pace toward the town square, the location of the reaping. I attempt to clear my mind of all negative thoughts, but my heart has begun to beat fast, making itself a known fear in my body.

There is a large crowd already fanned around the quickly constructed stage in front of the Justice Building. I discern that females and males are divided once again, so I begin to make my way toward the front of the male section, since I'm getting closer to the maximum age for these ridiculous reapings, being sixteen this year. Before I can get far though, someone grabs the scruff of my neck from behind and whips me around - I turn to see my mother inches from my face.

"Meet back right here when this reaping is over," she whispers, not releasing her grip, waiting for my response.

"Don't I always?" I answer, waiting for her to let go of me. She glares at me for a minute, and stalks off to the adult section of the growing crowd. My mother and I have never really gotten along; she just cares about work and business and profit – she never bothers to notice the beauty of our trade.

Glad to be free of her clutch, I meander through the population of District 12 to my section, just as I hear a booming microphone static to life from the stage. I turn to see the mayor adjusting the microphone, and beginning his speech. It's the same one every year – informing us that he hopes we have a winner this year, willing us to try our hardest, and of course, the reading of the infamous Treaty of Treason, which states how the districts went awry and rebelled against the Capitol, hundreds of years ago.

I've heard this speech so many times now that I could probably recite it in my sleep. So I tune out the words of the mayor and adjust my attention to my jumbled thoughts. I haven't even begun to wonder who will be chosen this year out of the guys section…will it be a young, hopeless twelve year old, or a strong-built boy of eighteen? I haven't heard rumors of anyone wanting to volunteer this year, so no relying on them this time around. I guess the luck will be against whoever is picked this year…

"Happy Hunger Games!" I hear Effie Trinket, our jovial Capitol escort, declare to the crowd. "I just hope we can have a winner this year!" she says, with an attempted smile. She's probably a little aggravated by this year of her career, seeing as our district hasn't had a Hunger Games winner in years.

The Hunger Games are the punishment the Capitol thrust onto the districts after the war; each year, a girl and boy, between the ages of twelve and eighteen, is reaped from a lottery-like system, and they become known as "tributes". If chosen, you are sent into an outdoor arena to survive by your wits, strength, bravery…or luck. It isn't surviving in the wild that's the most difficult part, however; you are forced to rival every other tribute that was chosen, and fight to the death. Simply stated, the last tribute standing "wins". In my opinion, nobody ever really wins the Hunger Games. If you die, well, you're gone. If you stay alive…you have to live with your memories of dying tributes and arena horrors for the rest of your tortured life. Everyone loses.

As Effie Trinket closes her preliminary speech, she ends with her signature line: "…and let the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" Is that supposed to be reassuring? "Now, let's pick our tributes for this year's Games, shall we? Ladies first, I always say!" she exclaims, making her way to the glass ball filled with every girl's name; one of those flimsy pieces of paper holds the unavoidable fate of a young girl not willing to die.

Effie reaches her hand into the glass ball, and I can almost hear the entirety of the girl's section withdraw its breath. My heart begins to race, too; these reapings are always hard to watch.

Effie has latched on to a piece of paper, and is opening it up now. Clearing her throat, she puts on a big smile, and speaks the name loudly for the crowd: "…Primrose Everdeen!"

I don't think I recall the name. I suppose it's better that I don't know the person that's to die...

But wait – this girl, this tribute of our district…she's so small! She must not be a day older than twelve. Her first reaping, and she was chosen. I can see a hardened expression on Effie's face at this point, after seeing the first tribute – a small, weak person like this was not who she would've liked to represent her this year, I assume.

Suddenly, there's a yell from the crowd. It's inaudible at first, but she screams the words again: "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

I can't see who the volunteer is at the moment, but I'm glad the smaller girl isn't going into the Games. Her death would've broken the hearts of the whole district.

The volunteer tribute makes her way up to the stage, and I can only see the back of her now - a thick, brown braid of hair cascading down her back…

_Wait…no…_

The girl is on the stage now, and has taken her place. Effie has already asked, "And what is your name?"

The girl attempts to compose herself, and speaks in clear, confident manner, "Katniss…Katniss Everdeen."

_NO. No, not her…she can't…she just can't…anybody but her…no…no…_

I hadn't bothered to put two and two together. The young girl's last name was Everdeen. How did I not realize right away…

And now…the girl I love is going into these Games.

And the odds are not in her favor.


	2. Chapter 2

****Author's Note: Shorter chapter this time, but I wanted to end this chapter the way that I did. Well, enjoy!

**The Final Goodbyes**

While I'm still trying to process how this has happened, I barely have time to glance toward Effie Trinket, who is striding over to the glass ball on the opposite side of the stage to pick the boy tribute. Angry thoughts are pounding through my head, rage coursing through my veins. Why didn't I tell Katniss how I feel about her _before_ she was reaped? This is the question that is relentlessly beating through my thoughts.

Effie is putting her hand into the glass ball now.

_I had eleven years to tell her._

She has grasped onto the fate-laden slip.

_And now she may not come back here._

She opens the slip, and clears her throat.

_I think I'd die for her if I could…_

"–Peeta Mellark!" Effie announces to the crowd.

Well, that's convenient. Looks like I'm going to die whether I like it or not.

I make my way toward the stage in a daze. The crowd is silent as I take my place. I don't know whether to cry, or to be happy that Katniss and I get to spend our last moments together.

Conflicted, I decide to express no emotions at all.

"Well, well, let's give a round of applause to our newest tributes: Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark!" Effie says.

The crowd remains silent, and knowing that the reaping is now over, it begins to file out of the square. I wish I could follow them.

But, I'm immediately shuffled off the stage by two large Peacekeepers. Peacekeepers are the policemen of the districts, per se. They keep things "under control". The two men bring me through the doors of the Justice Building where I'm led to an elevator. I ride up a few floors, and am told to wait in a room across the hall.

The room is very extravagant, with soft, velvety furniture and fine lighting. However, I'm not functioning well enough to appreciate any of this. Why would I be? I was just sentenced to my death.

I know why I'm in this room right now. This is where I will say my last goodbyes to my family and friends. I know I can't cry here, not now – I need to show my loved ones that I'm going to try my hardest in these Games.

The door opens a few moments later, and in walks my father and two brothers. My mother is not present, unsurprisingly. She probably doesn't even care that I'm so close to dying.

My siblings and father sit on chairs near me, and we sit in silence for most of the allotted time. At the end of the time period, my father whispers, "I only wish you and Katniss could both come back here…" his voice trails off.

Does he know I love her? I mean, he _was_ the one that showed her to me, but I didn't realize he might know my feelings. I am about to ask him, but a Peacekeeper alerts us that our time together is up. Suddenly, that question isn't important, and we're all hugging.

They wish me good luck in the arena and tell me to come back, but I take this as a last goodbye. I know I would like to win so I could see them again, but that would mean that Katniss would die, and I don't think I can live with that.

The door shuts behind them, but opens again immediately. Delly Cartwright, my best friend since childhood enters, and embraces me. She babbles on for a few minutes, trying to sound confident and optimistic as she usually does, but I remain silent. My mind is blank, and the only response I can come up with is a nod of the head.

Soon, Delly's gone too. Her visit went by in the blink of an eye; my sleeve is damp, so she must've been crying. _Or was I?_

So my father is gone. My brothers are gone. And Delly is gone.

And now, I realize how desperately alone I feel.

A Peacekeeper should be coming to retrieve me in a few minutes since there's no one left to visit me. But no one comes.

Many minutes pass, and the door opens. I get up to leave, until I realize there's not a Peacekeeper standing in the doorway, but my mother instead. I don't know whether to be relieved or angry that she showed up, but her countenance certainly suggests the latter.

She strides toward me, pushes me back into my seat, and sizes me up. That is when I decide that I wish she hadn't come.

"Listen, I wasn't planning on coming here," she begins dryly, sounding bored, "but your father said you would appreciate the visit, so here I am." She stares at me again, and I remain silent, at a loss for words. She looks at me a bit longer and finally says, "you know, maybe we _will_ have a winner this year…"

Confused by her faith in me, I must've given away a quizzical expression, because what she says next is, "…because that _girl_ is a real fighter."

Laughing, taking that as her cue to leave, she walks away from me, out of the room, and slams the door behind her.

And I realize that if I _do_ come back, then _that_ is what I will come back to.

Suddenly, not coming back doesn't seem so horrifying.


	3. Chapter 3

****Author's Note: I'm making this story more and more my own, but like I made clear before, everything belongs to Suzanne Collins. I'm really enjoying writing this, and I hope people are enjoying reading this. Review if you can. (:

**The First Encounter**

One minute I'm feeling completely detached from the world, emotionless and stoic, and the next minute tears are streaming down my face. I can't seem to compose my thoughts; everything has become a jumbled blur that I can't seem to visualize.

My father and brothers want me to come home, to come back to them, to win. But on the other hand, my own mother doesn't have an ounce of faith in me, and most likely wouldn't mind not seeing me ever again.

And then, there's Katniss. _That girl is a real fighter_ – my mother's words reverberate in my head. But the truth of the matter is, my mother is right. Katniss is strong. Everyday she hunts, or, did hunt, for her family to survive; and hunting in District 12 is strictly forbidden. She breaks the law in order to see the light of the next morning's dawn.

I've seen her grow to be the fantastic hunter that she is now. And I've seen her in her weakest state. I remember the memory like it happened just yesterday.

A couple of years ago, when I was around eleven years old, I had been helping out with the evening shift in the back of the bakery, rolling out dough for bread. The day was a cold and rainy one – depressing and dark.

Suddenly, my mother had sprinted out the back door, yelling, and I followed her. Outside we had seen Katniss, rifling through our trash bins, scrounging for bits of any food she could find. My mother scolded her, banishing her from our property, and Katniss hobbled away to sit under a nearby tree. Collapsing, she had put her head in her hands, looking as if she had given up.

As my mother and I reentered the bakery, I walked over to the ovens. I knew this was my only opportunity to help Katniss, so I grasped a tray of freshly baked loaves of bread, and "accidentally" dropped them into the fire. My mother screamed at me, angry at my clumsiness, and she proceeded to slap me; I willed myself not to cry at that moment – there was worse suffering than this in the world around me. My mother then ordered me to go throw the loaves to the pigs in the pig pin outside.

I consented happily, knowing my plan had succeeded. Walking out the back door again, I disregarded the pig pin and approached Katniss. She barely glanced at me, since she was in such a weak state. However, she must have still had her reflexes about her, because I threw the first of two loaves to her, and then the second, and she caught them both. She looked at me, longing glazing her eyes over, and uncertainty existing on the tip of her tongue. To show I meant the gesture, I just walked away, knowing she would understand.

I realized afterward that I was able to keep Katniss alive when she needed someone the most. I always wondered why no one had bothered to help her first, but I could never formulate an answer to that.

And does Katniss even know it was me who helped her? Her vision and thoughts must've been obscured by starvation; maybe she hadn't realized who had done her the favor at all. Well, all that really matters is that _I_ know, because she might not even be here today without me. If she had died…I don't even want to think about that.

And the idea of Katniss not being here wrings my heart in such a way that my tears begin to fall harder than ever.

I hear the doorknob of the exit turn, and I quickly wipe my tears away. I don't want to let these feelings show to anybody, not even a Peacekeeper. I can't let these depressing emotions be displayed; how else will I manage to get sponsored in the arena?

Two Peacekeepers come in the room to retrieve me, and I obligingly follow. I know my face must be puffy and tear-stained from my crying by the looks they give me, but I ignore them.

No more crying from here on out.

They lead me all the way to the train station, where the train is already there, puffing smoke and whistling loudly. Katniss is standing by one of the train's many doors, about to enter. Her face looks unnaturally blank; she has probably adopted the same strategy as I have – no display of negative emotions.

Suddenly Haymitch, our drunken mentor of this year's Games, appears. Haymitch Abernathy won the 50th Hunger Games, and apparently has not dealt with it well, because he is almost never sober. And the way he's acting right now certainly proves that theory.

"On the train, on the train, time to go!" he yells to Katniss and I, as he scrambles through the compartment door Katniss is next to, almost missing the entrance and running into the wall. I eye Katniss, trying not to laugh, but her face doesn't even flicker a smile.

But a retching sound from inside of the compartment makes my smile disappear in an instant.

Katniss and I finally board the train to see that Haymitch has vomited all over the luxurious carpeting of the compartment, and he seems to be unconscious now.

Without a word, we both take Haymitch, arm in arm, to his room after being pointed in the right direction by a Peacekeeper.

Not wanting Katniss to have to deal with stripping and showering the vomit-covered Haymitch, I say, "I'll take it from here."

She looks me in the eyes, and for the first time I see how beautifully grey her eyes are. I just want to gaze into them forever, but she quickly turns away and mutters "thanks" under her breath. She walks toward her room, after asking a Peacekeeper for the right compartment, and my heart seems to immediately drop when she leaves my presence.

"Katniss Everdeen, I _will_ make you open up to me," I whisper to no one in particular, as a limp Haymitch awakes and vomits again all over my shoes.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: I haven't updated in quite awhile, unfortunately, but school got in the way. However, here's a new chapter; I'm trying to make these gradually longer so you all will get more from each update. Reviews would be much appreciated, and thanks for reading. (:

**The Train**

I wake up refreshed from a well-deserved sleep in a luxurious train car; the sheets that envelop me are soft as silk against my body – I just want to stay here all day. However, this thought of mine is immediately interrupted by the sharp rap on my door, proceeded by Effie's cheerful greeting: "Time to get up, Peeta! It's going to be a big, big, big day!"

Stretching, I grope out of bed, rubbing my eyes. I walk weary-eyed to the bathroom where I go about all necessary hygienic procedures without having to take too long, and I then exit my bedroom car and head toward the dining car. When I arrive, Effie is the only one at the table as of yet; she has adopted an impatient sort of look, but it brightens considerably when she notices me. I guess she's glad that both of her tributes won't be extremely tardy today.

"Good morning, Peeta! Sleep well?" she asks happily.

"Yes, thank you," I respond politely. I've decided it's a good idea to make a suitable impression with Effie; she means well with her job.

I take a seat next to Effie, and Katniss enters the room as I take a roll from the center of the table. She's dressed in a dark green tunic, which complements her eyes perfectly. If only I had the courage to tell her.

She chooses a seat as far away from me as possible; did I do something wrong? She avoids my gaze, taking a roll as well.

Haymitch finally comes to breakfast after a couple of minutes of awkward silence. Good. Maybe he'll disrupt this quiet atmosphere. And I'd like to have a word or two with him about the Games; the reality of the situation finally settled into my system last night, and nervousness has penetrated my usually mellow being. Haymitch seems to be one of the only options I have for comfort at this point.

However, he isn't in much of a mood to talk. Hobbling over to a chair next to Katniss, he slumps into his seat, with his hands clamped around a drink that I can safely assume isn't water. Great, he's going to be drunk for this entire process, isn't he?

I search the table of food spread before me, looking for a drink for myself. I spy a brown, steaming liquid, hoping for tea. But when I pour a cup of it and let the liquid slide down my throat, I discover it has a sweet taste, equivalent to the chocolate-flavored sweet rolls we bake at home. In attempt to recreate this memory, I dunk part of my breakfast roll in the drink, and it tastes of home. At least I can hold on to a simple memory like this, even though it's not much.

Effie and Haymitch hold a whispered conversation for a few minutes, while Katniss and I sit in silence. Her gaze rests on the center of the table, while mine is unconsciously fixated on her face. She turns to me, and suddenly I realize that I'm staring at her; I quickly look the other way, and dunk my bread in the chocolate drink again.

Effie stands and leaves the train car to question the conductor about our whereabouts and schedule, and Haymitch directs his attention towards Katniss and I. I give Haymitch full eye contact, but out of my peripherals I see Katniss dip her own breakfast roll into the chocolate liquid she had poured for herself. Smiling slightly, I listen to Haymitch's first words to us.

"So, if you two didn't already know, it's my job to mentor you two in the Games-" Haymitch begins.

"Obviously," Katniss says suddenly. Haymitch's eyes glint deviously, and he whips his head toward Katniss.

"Well, well, well, aren't you a smart-mouth, sweetheart?"

Katniss stares Haymitch square in the eyes, unwilling to drop her gaze. Attempting to break the silence, I ask timidly, "so, Haymitch, have any tips for the arena?"

"Stay alive," he responds bluntly.

That's _it_? That is _not_ the type of advice I need. I charge at Haymitch, ready to put some sense into that drunken head of his; I have his arms pinned behind his back when a knife soars past his head into the wall behind him. Surprised, I turn to Katniss to see her arm still arced in a follow-through. Looking slightly ashamed, she ducks her head down and stares at her roll, her face burning.

However, Haymitch doesn't seem angry. In fact, he's smiling rather broadly.

"You two, stand in front of me, right there," he whispers, still grinning.

Katniss and I walk to his front, standing shoulder to shoulder. He stands as well and begins circling us, examining us for who knows what qualities. I feel a bit discomforted by the fact that Haymitch is staring me up and down, but I feel safe again when I notice Katniss's steady breath, realizing I'm not alone.

"Well, well, well…" Haymitch whispers, "…looks like we may have a couple of contenders this year."

He falls back into his seat again, giving both of us a rather eager grin. I think the alcohol is molding his emotions, because I've never seen Haymitch this happy before. Luckily, his somewhat creepy smile disappears as Effie rushes back into the car. From what I can tell, these two don't get along very well.

"The conductor informed me that we're making good time, just so you all know. Now, I think this is a good time to go through the schedule!" Effie says encouragingly. She runs through it rather quickly, but I don't pay much attention. I'm too busy chancing glances at Katniss when she's not looking.

"…And as soon as we get there-" Effie says.

"Let _me_ take it from here; you've done wonderfully," Haymitch tells her, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Effie doesn't seem to pick up on this sarcasm, however. "Okay, listen up, you two," he begins rather abruptly, "when we arrive, you both will be provided with a prep team and a stylist, to make you look…'presentable' for the days to come. Even if you don't agree with their artistic decisions, I want _no_ backtalk, and _no_ disagreement. We want your teams to actually _like_ you, so they'll want to work in your favor. Understand?"

Katniss nods, and so do I. But almost instantly, I'm struck by fright about what these stylists are planning to do to us. In general, tributes are dressed in accordance to their district's profession. Since District 12 is the coal-mining district, its tributes are usually dressed in black and covered in coal dust. Well, this should be fun.

"Here we are!" exclaims Effie, pointing at the window. When I follow her finger, I am blown away by the brightness outside of the window. Every color of the rainbow gleams back at me, and there are some of the strangest people I've ever seen, sporting tinted skin tones, whisker-covered faces, and jewel-encrusted limbs. My heart begins to beat rather quickly; am I going to look like one of _them_ when my prep team is finished with me?

Suddenly, I realize that this is the perfect time to develop some charm in the eyes of potential sponsors. I approach the window, adopt the best smile I can, and begin waving at the voluminous crowd. Screams of delight penetrate the train walls, and my smile grows larger. I turn around to see what everyone else thinks of this; Effie and Haymitch are beaming, and Katniss is scowling as if she just shot at a deer and missed. Yikes.

I face the window and start waving again. This little attempt at gaining sponsors won't hurt anything, right?

"That's a smart boy, that is," I hear Haymitch say from behind. Then there's a stomping, a door opening, and a slam. Surprised by the noise, I turn again to see that Katniss has disappeared from the room. Effie hurries after her to make her come back, since we're almost to our destination.

Eventually, the train gradually begins to slow down, and we stop at a marble white station, where an enormous crowd is assembled. Thriving on adrenaline, I exit the train behind Haymitch, with Katniss trailing in the rear. The Capitol citizens emit an overwhelming roar of enthusiasm over the District 12 tributes, dissolving some of my nervousness. Effie shuffles us over to a looming, white marble building where she and Haymitch drop off Katniss and I to be tended to by our prep teams and stylists.


End file.
